


Hands

by faikitty



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fenris (Dragon Age) has PTSD - Post-Tramatic Stress Disorder, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Nightmares, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-15 22:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8075203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikitty/pseuds/faikitty
Summary: Fenris is used to nightmares. Request.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So. I'm still alive. And still over-writing for fics that were only supposed to be 300 words. Whoops.

Fenris is used to nightmares.

His trauma is a visible one, wrought in iron, etched in the lyrium-filled ink in his skin. It’s there, always there, reminding him of his past, of Danarius, of the torment he went through at the man’s hands—

— _his hands, dry and wrinkled as they brush over his skin, tracing the raised, painful scars of lyrium that snake over his body, still fresh and new and agonizingly sensitive to the touch_ —

On nights when he’s lucky, Fenris doesn’t dream. He tries to work himself hard, hard enough that when he collapses into the bed he falls instantly into unconsciousness. When he doesn’t immediately fall asleep, he lies awake for hours, too wary of nightmares to close his eyes until his body finally gives him no other choice—

—I have no choice _, he thinks, bracing himself against the pain and the prying fingers that cover his skin with bruises_ —

And some nights, Fenris is unlucky.

He falls asleep to nightmares.

 _“My sweet Fenris” Leto hears as his nose fills with cloying, acrid breath. He has to force himself to stay still and not gag as Danarius’s lips touch his face, as much a mark of ownership as a kiss. Leto swallows hard. He flexes his wrists against the cold metal cuffs holding him there and closes his eyes. They can stay closed, he knows, until Danarius grabs his chin and forces him to look at him—but that won’t be for a while. For now, Leto can keep his eyes shut so he has at least some layer of protection. He strains against the chains, not trying to escape physically so much as mentally, trying to flee the pain that grows with the increased pressure of the blood mage’s grip, the pain that he_ knows _will penetrate his very core soon. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes closed more tightly. He knows never to let Danarius see him cry; he learned that the first time._

_But it’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth—_

Fenris shudders awake, clutching at sheets that feel all at once too heavy and suffocating. Throwing them off, he slings his legs over the side of the bed and presses the balls of his feet against the firmness of the floors, ready to flee if he needs. _Fenris_ , he reminds himself, shoving back the memory of Leto and the origin of his new name. _Fenris._ He steadies his breathing. He forces his small gulps of air to change to deep, slow ones, careful to breathe only through his mouth on the off chance he’ll smell the breath of his former master, permanently tainted with death.

When an arm brushes against his back, Fenris reacts without thinking.

He whirls around, slinging one leg over his assailant and wrapping his hands around the man’s neck as he pins him to the bed. It takes less than a second for him to shift, poised to rip the still-beating heart from the man.

And a second more for his brain to register that there _is_ no assailant, only Hawke, staring up at him in concern. There’s no fear in the other man’s eyes, nothing to imply that he would _ever_ expect Fenris to seriously injure him. There’s only worry and a deep, resounding affection.

Fenris is still not used to Hawke.

He releases the fool of a man and stands in one quick motion before stalking over to the nearby window. The floor beneath his feet is plush, a far cry from the cold stone floors of his own dilapidated mansion. His face burns with embarrassment and his having been unable to recognize his surroundings. He really should have expected the hand that touched him to belong to Hawke when they’re in _his_ room.

This time, when Hawke touches his waist, Fenris doesn’t panic. He gazes placidly out the window, arms crossed, even as Hawke wraps his own arms around him.

“Bad dream?” Hawke asks. Fenris makes a noncommittal sound, and Hawke rests his chin on Fenris’s head in response. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Hawke’s voice is quiet and low, his chest rumbling against Fenris’s back.

Fenris curses himself as his breath hitches slightly despite his steel-eyed gaze. “You didn’t,” he replies, but Hawke just sighs.

“I always forget not to touch you when you first wake up.” Hawke sounds sheepish. “I always think of when my siblings would have nightmares and wanted me to hold them. I forget you aren’t like that.” A pause, and then, “I’m sorry.”

It’s the apology that does him in.

Fenris turns, snakes his arms through Hawke’s to hold onto the bear of a man as best he can, and presses his face into the crook of Hawke’s neck. He breathes in deep, cringing when his exhale comes shaky. Hawke smells like cedar and cinnamon, so different from Danarius. And his hands—they’re broad and solid, strong and rough from holding his weapons, not skinny and bony and wrinkled. They’re comforting, so big on his back that they make him feel protected (although Fenris doesn’t like to admit when he _needs_ protection).

They don’t hurt as much when they brush against his scars.

“Shh, you’re safe now,” Hawke murmurs, moving one hand from Fenris’s back to card fingers through his hair. “You’re safe. He’s dead. He can’t hurt you now. _No one_ can. I’m here. I won’t hurt you.” As a reply, Fenris nestles his head more closely to Hawke’s neck. He can feel Hawke shaking ever so slightly too, and the years have taught him that it’s anger that makes Hawke shake on nights like this.

Fenris can’t say how long they stay like that, with him clinging silently to Hawke and Hawke rubbing his back and running fingers through his tangled hair. He just knows that at some point he feels Hawke shift, and the movement makes Fenris pull away and speak up long enough to say, “I am… fine.”

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Hawke replies simply, and Fenris honestly can’t identify the feeling that comes over him at that. “…do you want to go back to bed?” Hawke asks after a brief pause.

“Yes,” Fenris says softly. He lets Hawke take his hand, guide him back to the bed while _his_ eyes stay glued to the floor, and hold him close again once they’re settled.

Fenris is still uncomfortable sleeping next to people at times, but with Hawke, he feels safe. He knows falling asleep may lead to more nightmares; Hawke is a balm for his trauma, not a cure. But he knows, too, that Hawke will be there when he wakes, be it from daylight streaming in or from fear.

Fenris is used to the nightmares, but he doubts he’ll ever get used to Hawke.


End file.
